Page 5 of Midnight Valentine
I’m not the kind of woman who thinks surliness is charming. All these alpha-holes from romance novels have given women the wrong idea that bad manners are attractive. I also hate talking on the phone, which I stubbornly refuse to remember until I’m in the middle of a conversation, wondering why I didn’t just send a text.
I go back to cleaning and organizing, emptying boxes, and attempting to make a dent in the mountain of work I’ve got ahead of me. By the time I hear Suzanne’s voice calling my name, it’s six o’clock, and the sun is going down over the ocean.
It’s a spectacular sight. I stand in
the middle of the master bedroom and stare out to sea, nearly blinded by the huge orange ball and its glittering reflection on the water. This alone might be worth the price of the place, even if I never fix a single thing. Born and raised in Phoenix, I’ve never seen a sunset over the ocean. I find it strangely moving.
Cass would’ve loved this.
“Megan? Are you in there?”
I cross to the glass doors that lead to the balcony, pull them open, and look over the edge. There stands Suzanne on the brick patio below, her neck craned and a hand shading her eyes as she stares up at me. Gusts of wind blow her dark hair all around her face. She waves.
“Oh, hi! Your doorbell isn’t working!”
“I’ll be right down.”
I take the stairs two at a time and head out to the back patio. It’s enormous, as wide as the house, with an excellent view down to the beach. Off to one side, there’s a fire pit made of huge chunks of stone thrown together in a circle, ringed by half a dozen ancient Adirondack chairs, which look so weather-beaten, I can’t believe they haven’t collapsed into piles of rubble.
I open the French doors and wave Suzanne inside. “C’mon in.”
She picks her way across the patio, careful not to twist an ankle on the uneven bricks. Why she’s wearing high heels, a short skirt, and a blouse unbuttoned almost to her navel to visit me is a question I’m not sure I want an answer to.
Cass used to tease me that I’m a lesbian magnet because of the frequency I’m hit on by women. I used to tell him that’s because lesbians have good taste. Then he’d wonder aloud if I could find a lesbian who might also find him cute, and I’d wonder aloud what was the best way to get rid of a dead body.
As it turned out, cremation.
The list of things I’ll never joke about again is almost as long as the trail of tears I’ve left behind me.
“It’s getting blustery out there! You can really feel the end of summer!” Suzanne sweeps into the room on a gust of cold wind, pushing her hair out of her eyes and laughing. She’s about my age, attractive in a brassy way, one of those women who wears perfume that inhabits a room long after she’s gone. I close the doors behind her and gesture toward the grocery bag in her arms.
“You need help with that?”
“It’s not heavy. It’s just a bottle of wine and a little something I made for you.” She looks around the empty living room. “Did the movers not make it yet?”
“They came this morning, but as you can see, I didn’t bring much with me. Mostly just my clothes and books, some bedroom stuff.”
When she looks confused, I feel forced to explain. “My place in Phoenix was very Southwest, lots of cowhide and leather. None of it would fit here. I’m planning on getting an interior designer to create a modern-meets-Victorian vibe, keeping all the cool character of the Victorian era but updating it with contemporary touches.”
Suzanne looks impressed. “That sounds amazing, Megan. I have several great designers I can put you in touch with if you need recommendations.”
“Yeah, that would be great. Why don’t we go into the kitchen? At least there’s a flat surface in there.”
I lead the way as Suzanne follows, her heels clicking hollowly over the wood floor.
The house is built around a central rotunda which rises up two stories and highlights an elaborate curved staircase. We walk past the empty drawing room, music room, parlor, and guest bedrooms, and arrive at the kitchen. Like the rest of the house, it’s big and airy. Unlike the rest of the house, the windows are all boarded up and covered with a tarp on the outside to protect from weather damage. Evidence of the fire still remains: soot clings to the ceiling, scorch marks mar the black-and-white checkered floor.
“Oh Lord!” exclaims Megan, surveying the damage. “My cleaning crew was supposed to come out here before you arrived!”
“Someone must’ve come out, because the floors have been swept and the banisters have been dusted. And there are no cobwebs anywhere.”
She shudders dramatically, wriggling her shoulders. “Ugh, don’t talk to me about cobwebs. Spiders scare the bejeezus out of me.”
I have to smile. I used to be afraid of spiders too, until I had bigger things to worry about. PTSD tends to put things like arachnophobia into perspective. “I promise I’ll kill any that might jump out at you.”
Looking around warily for any critters preparing to pounce, Suzanne heads over to the large marble island in the center of the kitchen. She sets down the bag, pulls out a bottle of wine, and puts it aside, then withdraws a plate covered in aluminum foil.
“I baked you a key lime pie. You said it was your favorite.”
